Likely it was not a wise thing, drawing the attention of that dark and bleak gaze to himself, when he is no more than a man small and slender against the black dune of the bull. But it is cold enough out to turn his breath to mist, and hot enough within that it seems to him he can feel his blood running quick as a laughing brook in his veins.
He has an appetite for trouble, with Isra missing, with the memory of Raum hanging over him like the crescent-blade of the moon.
But the way that heavy head swings toward him - oh, suppose this man were looking for trouble, too. Lysander does not doubt that he could find it quicker, and come out cleaner.
Still he stands, and smiles in response to that voice as flat and heavy as a millstone. “Not at all. Only a fool would do that.” He says it easily, a curl of fern blowing up against a boulder. Around them pass a group of Denoctians, whose laughter bleeds away as they skirt around the pair. The antlered stallion nods at them, but their eyes are only for the bull. Lysander watches them until they are past, away again around a corner, their laughing voices back.
And then he turns back to his companion, shrugs a shoulder whose dapples are hidden by his winter coat. He regards the wide, impressive head and considers the wide, impressive hooves. But it is the man's eyes he really searches, wondering if the stranger felt the night the same way he did - as something tense and expectant. “I was only remarking that you must feel safer than most, despite everything going on.”
you fester in the daytime hours
boy, you never sleep at night
@
